Travellers
by karina001
Summary: Dark things are abroad in the darkness of the night and they hunger. Are the travellers you shelter what you suppose them to be?
1. Chapter 1

Title: Travellers

Author: Karina

Pairings: Zechs + Duo,

Ratings: M 15+ [In Australia] Rated for a bit of violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters.

Warnings: Extremely AU. Use of magic and a bit of violence.

Many thanks to ShenLong Deb for her work betaing this fic.

For Dark Song. I know you like a bit of fantasy, so Happy Birthday. I hope you enjoy.

Title: Travellers

The travellers came with the last rays of the setting sun, dusty, dishevelled and begging shelter from the road and the night bandits who hunted the unwary in the darkness. The old priest opened the doors of the orphanage to them, bidding them eat with the household and offering the loft above the ramshackle old stables single ancient donkey.

Rudimentary as the conditions were the travellers bowed deeply and offered the old man their thanks for his kindness, setting their few possessions by the door to later be carried to the loft. A child brought a basin of water to them and one at the time they dipped their hands into the chill water, washing off the travel dirt.

The old Priest was surprised when the travellers remained cloaked and hooded, settling at the place offered to them at the table, adjusting their tattered cloaks and shuffling that little bit closer to the meagre warmth of the fire. Flat bread was offered to the guests, torn from two loaves cooked by the Priest in the morning, scarcely enough to feed himself and the half dozen ragged children he cared for, but offered freely; and they took it and offered their thanks.

The children were uncommonly quiet at the table with the traveller's presence, twin dark shadows in the normally cheerful kitchen. Neither of the cloaked men spoke during the meal; they were surely men, their voices ambiguous enough to offer no clue, but what women would travel the roads in such times of unrest unless accompanied by adequate escort…? Even peasant women refused to travel unescorted, especially at night.

The Priest dished a single ladle of watery stew into chipped bowls and the children gravely passed them around, sipping from their own bowls before the welcome heat dissipated. The travellers ate in silence, dipping bread into their stew, sopping up the last bits of moisture and vegetables with somewhat more dignity than the children licking out their bowls.

When the meal was done, still in silence, the children removed the bowls, stacking them into the wash tub beneath the single window before huddling around the fire where a ceramic pot of water sat to one side of the coals, heating until a thin wisp of steam rose into the air. The old man dipped a hand in, spoke quietly to the eldest boy and watched as he ladled a small amount of hot water into two shallow bowls.

"Be quick before it cools and then to bed. I will be up to watch you say your devotions in a few minutes."

In the relative warmth of the fireside the children washed faces and hands quickly, towelled off on stained but recently washed cloths and, bidding the travellers a polite goodnight and 'The One Bless', climbed the narrow stairs. In their wake the old man stood at the foot of the stairs, studying the travellers in silence, watching.

They rose from the table and the shorter of the two moved to the fireside, the other to the door. Opening it a crack to peer out into the darkness of the night he appeared to be listening intently. The old man's heart clenched in fear and dread.

"I ask you to spare the children. We have little and what we have we share willingly with all who pass. Please. They have seen enough hardship in their young lives. In the name of the One I beg mercy for them."

"We mean neither you nor they any harm, good Priest. Your children are safe from us this night." The one by the fire turned to him and bowed low. "We give you thanks for the hospitality you have shown us."

"Who are you?"

"Travellers passing through." The taller of the two dropped the latch across the door, turning to pace close to the fire and other than the rustle of the cloak he moved silently, not even a footfall echoed in the kitchen. "Your children should not miss their devotions to the One."

"Good sir, see to your children. I was raised by one as kind as yourself in a place very much like this, and I respect the sanctity of the Holy Church. Please, see to the children. They are unsettled enough with our presence and we truly mean neither you, nor they, any harm."

The stairs creaked abominably as the old man climbed them and the travellers stood together, cowled heads turned not to the fire's heat but to the door and the single window near it. Overhead they could hear the priest's footsteps and the quiet murmur of voices.

"This brings back memories."

"Good or bad?" His voice deepened as the disguise was relaxed; rich, roughened velvet in the night.

"Both. We never had much, but what we had was shared equally amongst us and travellers were never turned away into the night. Will they come here?"

"Yes. Soon now."

The shorter of the pair sighed from within the shelter of his cowl and beneath the travel stained material a hand found the gauntlets tucked in his belt, pulling them on with practised ease; dropping a gloved hand to the hilt of his sword.

"I was in this exact situation once before, only there was no one then waiting for what was coming."

A shining wisp of the palest hair escaped the folds of the hood as his tall companion inclined his head down a little, and he knew he was being studied. One pale hand rose and long, slender fingers brushed the hair back beneath the shelter of the material.

"Will you be alright for this?"

"Past experience is only added incentive. Not one of them will reach the children or the old man. How long before we have company?"

"Minutes. I can hear them."

Stairs creaked and the shorter traveller strode to the foot of the stairs and looked up. The old priest froze, watching him, waiting. Looking like he expected doom to fall upon him and he would be right; if the orphanage was not graced this night with capable defenders.

"Go back upstairs, good sir. It is not for you, what will come this night. I bid you keep the children silent."

"What comes?" he whispered.

"Death, but not for you." The taller of the two moved once again to the door, listening for a moment. "Four… five."

"Then they are likely to be the ones we tracked."

"Who are you?" The old man was half way down the stairs, eyes wide and bright in the flickering light of the oil lamp.

"Travellers who can defend themselves and those they may happen to seek shelter with. Please, sir. Go. Keep the children silent. What comes this night leave to us. You will know when it is done."

"What comes in the night?" Stubbornly the old man looked between the two, the figure at the foot of the stairs who had spoken to him and the taller one by the door.

"A timely prayer to the One might serve us well, Priest, given daemons stalk this night. You have heard the talk; you know why no one will walk abroad after dark." The taller of the two was watching him he was sure. "Now, I ask you to see to the children."

He went, fairly running up the stairs despite his aged and creaking joints. Much had he witnessed in his long life and he did not live to be the age he was without having seen terrible things. Whispering prayers to the One he stared at the children lying under frayed thin blankets and on pads filled with straw and wondered if any of them would see the light of day. Their eyes were bright as they stared back at him, afraid, not knowing what it was they feared; not knowing what it was they sensed.

Two men against five daemons? He had seen no sign of weapons, but then anything could have been hidden beneath those cloaks. Anything… including daemons.

"The One protect us!" He whispered fervently. "Be silent, children. Be silent and be safe."

Unless those below, who professed to be their saviours, were in fact their murderers.

"Daemon is old school, Milliardo, you are slipping."

The tall man snorted softly, his attention focused beyond the room on what was happening outside of the house. He stepped away from the door, his long fingered hand emerging from his cloak, sprinkling a white powder on the floor. He knelt and drew amidst the dust and powder an intricate rune, concentrating to the exclusion of all else in order to see it formed and shaped properly. It had been many years since he had mishandled magic; he had learned early the consequences of a mistake. Accuracy was vital.

Peering at the forming complexity of the runes patterning the floor his companion flexed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, feeling the surge of adrenaline beginning. They were near; even he could feel them now.

"I am trained in that old school, my friend, why do you think my magic works so well?"

"And you are so modest too."

"More so than my companion I believe."

Beneath the cowl of the cloak blue eyes narrowed with concentration as he studied the runes and their alignment. The rune work complete he stepped back, careful not to disturb the working with a careless sweep of his cloak and paced back to join his companion.

"What will it do?"

"Banish the first creature to cross it."

"One less, before we even begin. Good. You are a handy man to have around, lover, but you have got to let me have some fun tonight."

Blue eyes closed briefly and the sigh was more than a little exasperated. "Killing these things is not supposed to be fun, Maxwell."

"No, but it's a poor world if one can't get some enjoyment out of one's work. I have a history with their kind and I enjoy some small satisfaction from payback. Light me up, would you?"

The sword was old, ancient, and the man who wielded it threw back his cloak, shrugging it over his shoulders to clear his arms for combat. He was ready for the fight, his cowl falling back to reveal brilliant blue eyes bleeding into shades of violet as his blood heated to the coming challenge. A rope of braided chestnut hair fell over his shoulder tied off with black leather, gold thread marking the runes sewn carefully into the supple hide.

His companion reached out a fine boned hand, each finger ringed in precious metals and gems and from each ring a delicate, intricate plaited arrangement of chains extended to connect to the wide, rune marked golden band circling his wrist. A single uttered word, complex in its pronunciation and uttered in a language which flowed with almost musical connotations; the lightest of touches to the bared blade of Maxwell's sword and the weapon hummed, blue flame igniting along its length, runes blazing to life beneath the flames, marking the blade and sealing the magic.

"Praise to the One." Maxwell murmured, touching his lips to the hilt where a blood ruby burned crimson fire with the light from the blazing blade.

"They are here." Milliardo's quiet voice, deep and velvet rich, filled the room.

Maxwell's hands tightened on the hilt of the sword and he took a long step to the fore of his companion, balanced on the balls of his feet, light footed, alert; waiting. He could smell them, the fetid stench of the otherworld, hinting at everything foul a man could think of. He could hear the scrabble of claws on wood and for an instant his gaze met the crystal blue eyes of his companion.

"Let's send them back to the hell they came from."

A softly uttered word from the magic wielder and the fire in the hearth flared to life, burning bright in the grate and banishing the momentary darkness that had encroached on the room. The light drove back the shadows so that when the door burst open, it was not the darkness that flowed through it that enfolded the defenders, but the light which caught at the advancing creature, banishing its darkness.

The fanged monster screeched with the discomfort it received from the flood of light and the monster leapt into the room, claws extended; intent on rending those who dared to bring it pain. Taloned feet came down on the intricately crafted runes and the screech became an agonised howl as light erupted from the runes, engulfing the creature in a brilliant cascade before snuffing out, taking the beast with it.

The doorway was ripped open, forcefully widened to permit two of the creatures to enter at once whilst a third crashed through the window, taking a goodly portion of the wall with it into the room. Hissing and snarling with fury it was on its feet in the blink of an eye, its terrible gaze on the tall man who stood without a weapon drawn, silent and still.

Maxwell grinned, eyes fever bright, sword extended as he danced forward. They had been following a trail of murder for weeks now, pursuing the daemons, intent on taking them down. The rift between worlds was widening and more and more creatures as vile as these were entering the world. It was his pleasure as much as it was his duty to send them on their way, back into the void to what ever world they had originated from… or to oblivion itself.

They could feel the pure energy of his flame and they shied from it, but they could scent the children too, and they hungered. He would not have it, they would not pass as once creatures not unlike these had come in the night to rend and slaughter innocents. He should have died that night, but he had survived and he would survive this night too, to defend others from such filth.

From the corner of his eye he saw the daemon charge his companion, claws extended, gaping maw filled with pointed fangs, hissing and slavering as it sought to kill. Maxwell dropped his shoulder, bringing his sword around, taking the creature in the chest and hearing it howl with the magic boiling blood and flesh.

A chained hand extended, the third ring glowing and Maxwell rolled himself over his leading shoulder, exposing the nearest of the beasts coming for him and lightning wreathed in purifying flame engulfed the daemon. The night was filled with the screaming as he continued to roll, passing the creatures and coming up with his blade extended, piercing the chest of the fifth beast just appearing in the doorway.

The magic contained within his sword flared anew and he watched the beast writhe, impaled on the blade and burning, seeming to evaporate into the cold night air and dissipate on the wind. Spinning, he blocked the reaching claws, grinning into the face of death with a smile filled with cold promise.

The magic wielder stood his ground, ringed hand raised, the delicate links of the chains crackling with visible energy. Two were closing in on him and he could see Maxwell take the fifth of the creatures down, engaging with another, smiling in the cold promise of no mercy.

They did not belong here. They preyed on the weak and the helpless, particularly the innocent and young. These beasts were not meant for this world and they could not be reasoned with. They knew only the need to feed.

He raised his ringed hand, flicking a finger; blue eyes alight with the energy of his link to the magic of the world. Flames, the purest blue of the hottest fires magic could feed, engulfed the leading creature and it continued to come at him even as it burned. Graceful, unhurried, he stepped to the side into the path of the second creature which screeched in triumph.

Perhaps there was one thing more appetising to these creatures than the life of a child… a life infused with the energy of the world they had come to…the Catalyst, a pure magic user. Its lust to feed on that magic made it eager, careless, and it impaled itself on the sword that appeared in his right hand, magic blazing from the conjured blade and the rings and chains which fed it magical energy… fire magic was no friend to the beast.

There was no means of extinguishing purifying flame once it was set to its task.

Maxwell parried a succession of taloned strikes, his smile growing wider with each strike, dancing on light feet, perfectly balanced, perfectly placed. He ran the beast through on the third stroke, casting it aside even as it began to dissipate and turn to dust. Never pausing he lunged back into the kitchen, throwing himself at the back of the nearest creature, thrusting the enchanted blade deep into the ridged back, watching as it screamed, burned and faded to dust.

Milliardo stood for a long moment, blue eyes closed against the light, his senses straining beyond the building and out into the night. After a moment he reached to touch the burning blade wielded by his companion and the blue flame died.

"I guess that means the night's clear." Maxwell sheathed the sword, turning to examine the wreckage of the door and wall. "Well, at least we never burnt down the building. The last time was a bit… messy."

"I will ward the door against entry; the spell will dissipate with the rising of the sun." The Catalyst moved to the table, placing a small leather pouch which clunked with the weight of coins as it contacted the table. "This will enable repairs."

"Where to from here?"

Maxwell drew the folds of the cloak more firmly about him, raising his cowl, once again becoming shrouded into anonymity. He watched the magic user move on to the door, watching the magic ignite and dance across the rings and chains adorning that slender hand, intricate motions of fingers setting protections against intrusion in place.

He wondered how long it would take the old man to speak, or if he would be too afraid to reveal his presence. He had watched much of the fight, his presence revealed by the outcry stifled by the medium of shoving his own fist in his mouth to muffle the noise. He had been wise enough to not wish to attract attention, even if he had not been wise enough to stay upstairs.

With the placement of the wards the chains faded from sight, the rings fading a moment later and the rune marked golden wristband regained the appearance of polished leather. Unadorned, the long fingers smoothed down the tattered cloak and he walked out into the night.

"East. There was another disruption at sunset; something came through. The hearth fire will burn to winter's end, Priest."

"Damn. I was hoping to make use of that loft," Maxwell muttered.

"Who are you?"

He paused on the threshold, looking back. The old Priest stood on the stairs, eyes wide with all that he had witnessed. After a moment Maxwell shrugged and stepped out into the night.

"Travellers. Thank you for your hospitality, sir. May the One protect you and the children."

The night, cold and clear, closed around them and for a long time there was only the sound of frost under boots.

End

Karina Robertson 2010


	2. Chapter 2 I Remember

Title: Travellers

Author: Karina

Pairings: Zechs + Duo

Ratings: M 15+ [In Australia] Rated for a bit of violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters.

Warnings: Extremely AU. Use of magic and a bit of violence.

Many thanks to ShenLong Deb for her work betaing this fic.

Originally written as a birthday present for Dark Song, Travellers will continue with occasional updates as a succession of complete one off style fics. Not sure how many of these there will be, but while the muse wills it, there will be the occasional Travellers update which, I hope, those of you who asked for more will enjoy.

Title: Travellers: I Remember

Some people could sleep anywhere but in the case of his companion, curled tightly beneath the ragged cloak and tucked as far back beneath the overhang as he could possibly get, he really could not complain. It had been a long and eventful night and he well knew the use of magic was tiring. Magic such as his companion could wield was diminished by the simple use of the descriptive 'magic'.

There was magic and then there was MAGIC.

How many years had passed since they had teamed up? They were more than a partnership, each a part of the other, linked at the soul. It was why they worked so well together. Why he had been chosen to be what he was.

Shield.

It was why he had been born.

So very long ago their story had begun and the smell of the burning castle across the valley brought back memories. It might have been yesterday and this rock overhang could almost be mistaken for the one that sheltered him and a different set of companions that fateful day when destiny called and brought him to his companion.

His heart's reason for beating.

The overhang might have been the same, but that rock overhang was half the world away and in the midst of a ruined city that once had been splendid. Even then, a thousand years ago, the city had been nothing more than a legend; even its name had been lost in time to all but the most avid of scholars.

He had run through its debris strewn streets, through its rubble that once had been buildings of great beauty and demons had dogged his heels whilst confusion clouded his mind and his heart ached at his abandonment of the battle.

He had wanted to believe…

———————————————————

Huddled under the overhang, grasping greedily for what meagre protection it offered in keeping the howling wind and driving rain from them, he inched a little closer to the meagre warmth of the low burning fire.

There were not many of them left, and of the six he was the only one relatively unscathed. Just a few minor wounds. He had been lucky. He would not have lit the fire but he would not have them die in darkness, prey to the demons stalking the ruins. These were good men and if they were to die, as die he knew they must, he wished them to see the light and think of The One and know there was a paradise awaiting them.

But after all this time he was very tired of fleeing into dark nights ahead of monsters that should not exist.

The rocks and rubble sheltered them from the wind, which in turn sheltered them from the full force of the roar of the burning castle and the periodic bursts of Old Magic that rent through the demons' ranks. The fight might last the entire night through and he should be up there, helping the defenders, but instead he was here, watching as his men died of their wounds and waiting for something to happen.

But the Shield and the Lord had said his destiny lay here, amidst the ruins, and that it was time. It was time for him to stand to face his destiny and he no longer would need to run from the demons who seemed to pursue him across the face of the world.

The first time they had entered his life he had been nothing more than a child of six winters. He could still remember the night, hiding, terrified 'they' would find him. Terrified of dying, of being torn to pieces and being devoured by the night horrors.

He had learned no one believed the devils were real… until it was too late for them to run and hide. Old wives stories they said, stories to frighten a child into obedience. Stories sprouted by the Church to gather more power to those who stood high within its sanctified protection.

He had heard it all, every possible excuse for not believing the creatures were real.

But he knew they were real.

He had known it then, young as he was, before they had attacked the orphanage and destroyed his life, taking away from him his friends and the old priest who had cared for them all. He had listened to the stories told by the old man who had come one day, a traveller bound for the distant city. The old one had told entertaining stories, some to make the children laugh and some to make them fear and be thankful for the protection of the Church.

'They were safe on sanctified ground, fortunate they were, but beware for the darkness walked abroad and they would come in the night. One would rise to fight them, to be a shield for his fellow man, to learn the myriad of wonderful mysteries the world hid from all but the most daring and brave.'

The old man had seemed to be looking at him, talking directly to him, and he remembered the words long after the traveller had left.

The beasts, the devils, the 'things' that came in the night… had destroyed all that he knew.

It was the not the last time he had run, merely the first of many times. He had been running from them all his life, and why did he think running this time would save his miserable hide? It was not his destiny to run this time.

He had become a wanderer, a traveller, since that awful night when he witnessed his friend's deaths. Torn apart, devoured… He had been a nobody wandering the roads, a wretch of the lowest order… and he felt not much more than that now.

War had been his salvation. The small, bloody wars fought between the Lords meant soldiers were always needed, and soldiers were fed and clothed by their liege lord. His first piece of armour had been a crudely padded sack with head and arm holes and his weapon had been nothing more than a green oak staff cut fresh from the nearby forest.

He had not even been afraid.

What was there to fear from wading into a battle between men when one had survived the horrors of the night beasts? He had found a kind of power in himself that first battle when he had discovered that if he hit the men coming at him, screaming like banshees in their fear of dying, each and every one of them intent on killing him just so they might stay alive and eat another meal, sleep another night, live another day… If he hit them they tended to fall down and stay down. It was he who survived to breathe and eat.

It had been a surprise at the end of that terrible day, to find himself alive; covered in blood and stinking of other men's guts and his own shit. He had been terrified but they had all moved so slowly and really, other than voiding his bowels as somewhere in the chaos of battle, two men had came at him screaming for his death… it seemed he had killed their brother… he was unharmed.

Alive and unharmed, just very, very tired.

At some time during the fight he had lost the quarterstaff he had been given and picked up someone's discarded sword, a rude, rusty thing, but still capable of dealing death.

His survival had been noted by the Lord, the one he had signed up with for the space of three years… if he should survive that long in service to the Lord he would be given a letter of recommendation and a purse of thirty silver coins. He would, thereafter, be free to go on his way should he so choose. His Lord had been pleased, very pleased in fact. He had found himself taken from the ranks of the survivors and handed over to the training master.

"So you are the one, eh? Thin, weedy little runt you are. Sure they didn't make a mistake? You don't look like much of a fighter to me."

But he had been trained and the man had been anything but kind. He had, however, been very good at his profession and, combined with attention from the Weapons Master, by instruction from their Lord, he had made a fighter out of the ragged peasant boy who had simply been trying to survive.

It was the start of his long road as a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, culminating at this point where he hid under a rock overhang in a haunted ruin. He was hiding and afraid the devils would, this time around, manage to kill him even as he was furious he was not up at the castle defending the Lord.

His had been a long life steeped in blood and guts, and in his knowing that he could not forever elude the Reaper - yet he had. For how much longer could he defy death? One day he would not be able to avoid that killing blow in battle, either from his fellow man or from the dark horrors that seemed to hunt him. On that day he, like so many before him, would pass into the Reaper's care and hopefully, if he had lived justly according to the laws of The One, he would be passed into the paradise provided by the One for those who were true to his credo.

'Some men in this world are born to live and die by the sword. You are one of those men, Maxwell.'

'I was not born into this world with a sword in my hand. I might have been a farmer's brat and grown to be a farmer. I would have liked to care for the land; to grow crops and sit and watch the sun set.'

'Not you, my friend. You were born to wield a sword. None does it better.'

Vorland was dead, like so many others. He had died thirty years ago after the battle in Hastings field, a spear through the gut, and it had taken him a week to die. Gut wounds were always the worst and they had had no decent Healer, only an old herb woman who had shaken her head, drafted him up to sleep and gone to patch up another with more chance of survival.

He was tired of living whilst others died around him.

Why did the sword always spare him? He should have been dead a hundred times over in his blood filled life, but here he sat, tossing sticks into a fire threatening to blow out with every stray gust of wind that made its way around the overhang.

Five of them now. At least Humphry's had died in his sleep, and with his boots on. The young fool had said that was what he had wanted when he had signed up with the Lord, twenty two years ago at the tender age of sixteen. Like him, an outcast from society just trying to stay alive. He'd been good with an axe, but not good enough to escape wounds; not good enough to escape a blow that laid him low and left him to wait for death to claim him.

It came to everyone; that was what they said… everyone but him.

What made him different? Why was he still alive after all this time? Why was he still the way he was, looking to be in his prime, young and vital… when he was so bloody old?

He had thought he was doomed to wander the world, killing for petty lords and their squabbles. He had prayed there was something better to fight for. There had to be some reason why he led a charmed life. Was he charmed… or cursed? Was it a blessing from The One, or was he bearing a curse for some past sin of his own or his unknown father, or his father's father?

Why was he still alive after two hundred and fifty years?

Man was not meant to live this long. It was unnatural and he was careful to keep moving, to hide how he did not age. Never more than a five year term of duty with one lord… never returning to a region unless a generation had passed lest someone recognise him. Never any more than five years…until he had come to this last Lord.

This one had looked at him with old eyes from a young face… and he had actually 'looked' at him. Looked and recognised eyes as old as his in a face as young as his.

'Maxwell, you say your name is? There is a place here for you, Sir Maxwell. You are welcome.'

"I am no knight, My Lord, I am just a soldier seeking a place to call home for a time.'

'I beg to differ, Sir Maxwell. You are indeed a knight of the greatest order of knights, and I have waited a long time for your coming. You will join my standing army, Sir Maxwell, and you will teach them what you may. A Weapons Master and veteran of many battles such as yourself will have much to impart to them. Here you may rest until it is time."

'Time, Lord Khushrenada?'

'Time for the moon to walk and the darkness to be vanquished by our light. Welcome home, you who will be the Moon's Shield.'

He had no idea what the strange young Lord with the too old eyes meant, or why he should be greeted so kindly by the man. But there was something there that called to him, something about the Lord that drew him. Something he had never felt before. Something…

'Who are you, Lord Khushrenada?'

'A remnant of the past and a defender of the future. I stand as The One's Shield Arm and, at this time, I am the Moon's Guardian. The time draws near when you will find your destiny.'

After twenty five years residing in the household of the Lord Khushrenada he still did not understand, and following that initial meeting the Lord had answered no further questions. He had opened his castle and accepted the traveller in a way no one else had done in all his long years. Nor was the Lord Khushrenada the only one there, in that castle now burning with demon fire on the ridge above the vale, who had looked upon the world with old eyes in a young countenance.

The Lord Khushrenada's Shield had tested him on a daily basis, the pair of them growing stronger in their skills as they sparred. Heero Yuy had been intense, mostly silent, deadly with every weapon imaginable and fiercely protective of the Lord Khushrenada.

'Heero is to me as you will be to the Moon. In time you will understand, Sir Maxwell.'

After twenty five years he was still waiting to understand and becoming heartily fed up with it too. But if living to be over two hundred taught one anything, it was how to be patient.

And how to envy a man a magnificent weapon.

The first time the demons had attacked Castle Khushrenada he had witnessed a miracle. He knew no one else saw it as such, but he was sure of what he saw and what it was. A miracle. He had always wondered why Heero never drew the sword at his hip, a hilt of gold and blue gems, tied by an elaborate knot of silk cord to prevent its being drawn.

Duo had long envied Heero that blade though he had never seen it in its entirety. Never drawn, always tied with red cord and never spoken of. Yuy ignored his questions, bowed and would move away until he had learned not to ask after the sword. When combat was required Yuy had used the heavy, two handed sword strapped to his back, itself a magnificent blade, deadly beautiful when wielded by the man who bore it.

Until the day the devils had appeared, five years ago, only the great double handed blade had been drawn in Duo's sight.

The monsters had come in the night, as they usually did, but this time the kill did not go their way. This time, somehow, Lord Khushrenada had known they were coming and the castle was prepared.

'You will need a sword that can slay devils, Sir Maxwell. Until the Moon presents you with your blade, accept this as substitute. I assure you, it will slice a devil's hide.'

Light in his hand, magnificent in appearance, it was the sort of weapon fit for a king to wield. The quality of workmanship matched the great two handed sword Yuy wielded. He had been awed by the gift and stunned at how well it could cut the devils hide, but he barely had begun to defend the castle when the knot had been slipped from that other sword.

The blade that was drawn was long and straight, the metal golden in the torchlight, but it had not remained the gold of reflected light for more than a moment. Lord Khushrenada had merely touched it, his hands shining with light, his fingers shimmering as though rings circled each finger… and he had glowed. One touch and the sword had blazed with green light, burning bright in the night and Yuy had advanced two paces to stand before his Lord.

It was his introduction to magic. Real magic, not the petty spells and incantations and the herbal brews mages and healers used. This was something else and they cut through the demons like a hot knife sliced through fresh butter. How he had fought off the horde and still witnessed so much of the magic he did not know, but he saw it all and he marvelled… and at the end the Lord had looked at him and smiled as the magic faded away as though it had never existed and the knot was tied, once again, around the magnificent sword.

'They will be back, Sir Maxwell, and you must be ready for when they return. They have found us now and I can not leave this place until the Moon walks free. Five years, I would think. They will gather as many of their kind as they can in that time and come to this place to rend us. When it comes, as come it will, and I tell you to go, you will go. You will do exactly as I say and this world will be well defended in the dark time to come.'

He had walked away without another word, bone aching tired, he could see that, but the Lord's back was ramrod straight and his spirit was high.

'We practise at dawn. You need to be ready for that day.' Yuy had bowed to him, a strangely formal bow, and his eyes had still been alight from the fires that had raged within his sword.

Dawn and dusk every day they had fought, each day becoming more intense and always the Lord Khushrenada had watched them, nodding in satisfaction when he could fight that little bit longer and that little bit fiercer each time.

Were they dead now? They had survived the initial conflagration that had come down upon the castle and ripped it open like an overly ripe fruit, but were they still alive now? It seemed the sky lit up with lightning in answer to his unvoiced question, and it was no effect of nature but of magic. Magic of the kind only the Lord Khushrenada had been able to wield.

'It is time for the Moon to rise.'

The Lord had been smiling even as he stared into the unnaturally dark night. They had gathered about the castle, an army of the horrible things that had haunted his dreams since his childhood. They had gathered and howled at the walls keeping them at bay, and the night had exploded into fire… and he had been sent away!

'You will go through the rear gate and down the cliff path into the vale, taking these ten men as escort. You will go down into the ruined vale and you will find there the means by which to awaken the Moon.'

He had not understood why he was being sent from the fight and Yuy had shaken his head at his protests, silencing him with a look, a heavily gloved hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

'This is your destiny. It is what you were drawn here for. Go down into the ruins.'

'Follow the path that will open to you, Sir Maxwell, and there you will find the Moon.'

'But you need me here!'

'Meet your destiny, Sir Maxwell, and become what you were born to be. Then shall you understand what and who you are. The One calls you to be the Shield of the Moon as The One once called Heero to become my shield. Go.'

And here he was, sitting by a dying fire with five men barely breathing at his back and the darkness gathering about them… wondering what the hell he was supposed to do next. The paths had all led here, to this overhang in the centre of the ruin, and he still had no idea what he was to do.

Rubbing at his face he wished he did not feel every day of his age. He ached, body and soul. His had been a long life and he was certain it would end this night. They had barely made it into the ruins and he was the only hale body amongst the survivors. Two of them might be able to defend this position for a few minutes, but if the horrors came in force, as he knew they would, they would die.

"Sir Maxwell?"

"What is it?" He turned, looking to the youngest of them, knowing it was the one who was blinded, his face a mass of burned flesh from demon fire.

"What is that light? And the warmth… it's wonderful."

Delusional. Hallucinating from the wounds he had sustained. It would probably be a kindness to a fighter such as this man had been to slit his jugular and end his misery. A kindness, but one he was tired of having to perform time and time again.

"It's just the fire, Bryce. Rest yourself now."

"The fire? It does not look like fire to me, Sir Maxwell. It's… it's like magic."

?

There was indeed light and it was coming from the wall at their back! Why had he not noticed before? The overhang was the remnant of an ancient building. Overgrown and in the darkness it had seemed the best place of their few options to rest and wait for the hour of moonrise. It certainly had not been glowing and emitting warmth when they had stopped here to rest after making a fourth circuit of the maze the ancient streets had become.

There was a doorway, the light was pulsing gently, filling his sight; an opening in the wall before him. He knew it had not been there just seconds before. This was indeed magic, the kind of magic he termed 'real'. The sort of magic no hedge wizard, or learned mage, could perform despite a life time of studying. He could feel it rising and resonating in his bones and it was calling to him, singing to him, urging him…

To come.

"You had best hurry along, Sir Maxwell. We shall rest here. It was a pleasure to serve under you, Sire. Mayhap, one day, we might serve you again."

He barely heard the voice of his companion, so enchanting was that whispering song, but he was a commander of men who valued the lives of his men and he had seen enough death. He needed to protect his men, this light and sound would draw the devils and they would be slaughtered, unable to defend themselves.

"You can go through…"

He had moved? He was in the doorway and staring down a brilliant light that went on forever and, strangely, did not hurt his eyes. It was bright, glorious and it sang to him.

Turning he saw the overhang was gone and a room filled with soft radiance surrounded his men. They were sleeping, each relaxed, and was it his imagination the burns on that young face were healing?

He blinked and found himself walking, drawn inexorably into the light. The fleeting thought that he needed to return to the castle and help defend its walls was blown gently away by a light breeze; a zephyr of sweet scented moonlight caressing his face…

And he stood within a shadowed hall; half seen shapes surrounded him, whispers everywhere, all talking about him, all whispering his life's exploits, dragging out into the open his every waking thought, his every dream, his every nightmare. The whispers grew into a cacophony of sound that threatened to burst his eardrums, but something told him to endure it. To stand tall and strong and to wait and show his courage.

'He killed men. Many men that day…'

'What did it feel like to kill so many men?'

'We are...'

'What had they done to you…'

'To make you turn on them and kill them as you had?'

"Here you are then…'

'He cried as a baby. Should a hero cry even so young?'

"We are quite…'

'Should a hero cry at all?'

'The best hero's cry."

'I have not cried in so long…'

'He howled like a banshee…'

'This is the best four hundred generations can produce?'

'Four hundred generations of peasants!'

'I see courage and strength of limb.'

'Oh, fortunate one to shed a tear.'

'I see a raggedy 'thing', nothing more.'

'Want to be a hero do you?'

'I see a survivor, strong and true.'

'Alone. Alone and afraid as he listens to our song…'

'I see… nobody…'

'Maybe a nobody can aspire to be a hero. Are there rules against it?'

'We are quite insane. It has been so long…'

'Too long have we slept.'

'We sing a song of insanity…'

'I grow so weary.'

'It would be good to lie down and find sleep.'

'I sleep all the time. There is nothing else to do.'

'Speak for yourself, I haven't slept a day in a thousand years.'

'Join us in the nightmare…'

'I would have thought for a Shield the one presented would be of the nobility at the very least, not this dross of the world.'

'Dross? Dross?! Is that even a word?"

'What is it, exactly?'

'Well, I would have thought that obvious. It is a man.'

'A man?'

'You mean… a human?'

'No. It's a dog.'

'Oh this is too much! A human?!'

'It was foretold the Shield would be human. Four hundred generations of human and the Shield would come.'

'But… a human! They smell.'

'Doubt you the Will of the One?'

'They stink of blood and guts and graveyard soil. From the day of their birth they reek of their death.'

'Everyone had bad days, even The One.'

'If He chose this offal then it was a very bad day!'

He thought he should be affronted, but curiously, he was unmoved. He had been called worse, after all. He had been born in a gutter somewhere, or maybe a stable, or perhaps in a shabby hut, if not a ditch by the road.

'Well, at least you acknowledge your gutter birth.'

He had survived his birth and poverty and he had survived the night of terror that set his feet on the road to the sword.

'Crawled into a hole and stuffed your fists in your mouth, didn't you?'

'Some hero.'

He had survived the training and the battles and the continual reappearance of the devils that ripped men limb from limb and devoured them.

'They rend and kill as you killed your fellow man. Think you better than they?'

'A killer is still a killer, no matter what race or species.'

He had survived assassins and magic gone wild in the hands of men who did not have knowledge enough to wield it.

'Think you so poorly of those who seek to use the Art?'

'Go down well that will.'

'At least he knows better than to try to use the Art himself.'

He had survived the sparing matches with Heero, and he had survived the conflagration that cracked the castle this night, and the run to the ruined vale.

'The rip grows wider, inches wide now and what dwells on the far side finds its way to this world with growing ease.'

'A dog of War.'

'A Shield for the Moon has been provided, are you to stand in the way of the will of The One?'

'It has been tested and it has survived.'

"It might have had a number of good days?'

'An old dog.'

'Oh please. Must you do this?"

"Of course."

"One must be certain.'

'An old dog who has fought and killed and survived.'

'Can you simply not have faith?'

'Where would the excitement in that be?'

'Not a dog…'

'We are not here to have excitement. We are not here to count the fleas on a dog's back.'

'It has fleas? Should it not be bathed then?'

'Are you trying to be funny?"

'Not a dog…'

'Well, I am the Court Jester.'

'It is not a dog, it is a…'

'Fool indeed.'

'A Wolf. It is a Wolf.'

'And I am the Knight General!'

'Be silent. Do you think we have all day?'

'Do you think the mortal world has the time for you to play these stupid games?'

'Four hundred generations of man have we waited to be forgiven our sins!'

'You play the fool even now.'

'The One forgive us, we have learned nothing. Four hundred generations of mankind and all that has been learned is insanity."

'He remains unmoved, unbending beneath the wailing and weeping.'

'A wolf.'

'He mourns the deaths of friend and foe alike.'

'As does a Wolf.'

'He is practical in that he knows to live is to survive until the next test tries one's soul.'

'No, no. It is 'to survive is to live until the next time one's soul is tested'.'

'As does the Wolf.'

'The One's scales are balanced with this human's soul.'

'Do you wish to pass little human?'

'Join us and we can dance!'

'He has a nice length of leg.'

'I could feel those thighs gripping me. He would offer me a wild ride.'

'He is not a horse.'

'He is a wolf, I have told you. Wolves know how to survive. They know how to hunt, how to fight for what is worth fighting for… food, a mate, the right to breed… the right to survive. Is that not so, little human?'

He blinked in the silence, waiting. Somewhere in the distance he thought he heard the drip of water. The absence of light was profound, and he wondered if he had not become blind from the previous light. It was as though there had been no one brushing past him unseen, no one whispering, no one there in the darkness which had been made up of light.

'Dare you take that step forward?'

'Do not!'

'Die you will… if you do.'

'Take a step forward… and survive.'

'Step forward and die.'

What should he do? Should he move? Should he take that step? Was the footing under his feet even or rough? He might land flat on his face and would that not be wonderful if he did? He might step forward onto the blade of a sword, beneath the swing of an axe blade… or fall into a pit trap with spiked death below waiting to impale him. How long did he dare stand here before he dared to do… something.

'I must apologise, Duo Maxwell. Please, of your courtesy, step forward into the light.'

That sounded like an invitation to him, and it was a new voice, female, sounding incredibly sane after the screaming and sobbing and wailing of the Voices that had held him. How long had he listened to them? It felt like years… Well, taking a step forward was better than standing like a dummy wondering if he would fall on his face… or on his arse. Whichever it was to be, doing something was better than doing nothing. He took the step…

Summer breeze wafted gently across his face and he looked out over a beach, the ocean vibrant blue and stretching to the horizon. Silk curtains, white as newly fallen snow, blew gently in the breeze and framed the window through which he looked over the scene. The whisper of silk behind him drew him around, making him turn his back to the stunning magnificence of the view.

'Welcome, Duo Maxwell, to the forgotten city of Sanc. You have been named by a Catalyst as Sir Maxwell, Shield of the Moon. Are you prepared to take up your destiny and face the darkness of another world in defence of the world of your birth?"

She was stunning; long dark blonde hair and the most intense blue eyes he had ever seen. There was something otherworldly about her beauty, something powerful about her that simmered beneath the gentle smile she turned on him.

'I must apologise once again for the state of the wards guarding the entry to this place. Those who survived the span of time were perhaps not the brightest, nor the least bigoted, of my former subjects.'

"Ah, s'okay. Ma'am. I've been called worse than a flea bitten old dog before."

"I am sad to say, bigotry is alive and well in every age and in every world. Those who rise above its corruption are treasures to The One."

"Ah, not meaning to be rude and all, My Lady, but… where am I? And who are you?"

"You are nowhere. Standing in the midst of a ward that stands between one place and the next; this is where you are. I am a Guardian who is weary and am most pleased to make your acquaintance. Your presence here was foretold a very long time ago by the reckoning of your race… and even my own. I am a remnant of a time long past and I have waited in this place for the one who would come and relieve me of my burden. You are that one."

"So… Forgive me, My Lady, this is all new to me. What am I supposed to be here to do?"

Her feet were bare and the black gown of flowing silken thread trailed behind her, whispering of mysteries and magic as she crossed the white marble to take a seat at the window. The sea breeze played with her hair and he was reminded by her beauty that he stood before her filthy, bloody and battered from combat, yet she seemed not to notice his stink.

"I am hopeful you will pass from this hall to standing as Shield to one who was wronged a long time ago and who, though wronged grievously by his kin, stayed true and earned The One's favour. It is said that you are to be his Shield and it will be your duty to fight along side Him, even as you protect him from the Darkness that encroaches on your lands."

The blue eyes seemed to grow more intense as they captured him.

'You will be to him as Sir Yuy is to the Khushrenada, who is the Catalyst he serves. You, as once Yuy was chosen, are to be guard-stone, warrior and, I pray to the One, also friend to the Catalyst they call the Moon."

Duo considered the willowy woman for a long moment, fighting the urge to laugh in her face. She was quite serious. He could see that knotted sword and the power flowing through it when it had been unbound, could see the Lord Khushrenada standing behind Yuy and Heero standing there, tall and strong, confident. Solid… like a shield.

'Shield… to a Catalyst. That's what Lord Khushrenada is?'

'They are few. Only four have been born since the world's creation. Only four, men and women of rare strength and sensitivity graced with the fortitude of heart and soul required to bear so heavy a burden. Dark times come, Sir Maxwell, and one Catalyst and Shield walk the lands of your world at this time. They are sore pressed and the darkness grows in power with the tear in the world's fabric. Where one Catalyst and Shield struggle to save the people, two may better serve. It is time my brother was awoken from his slumber to once more walk the world.'

"I think I'm a bit lost here, Ma'am."

He felt the world was closing in around him, that the room was darkening and the breeze was picking up into something that might more accurately be termed a wind. It made it hard to hear her, harder to understand what it was she was saying.

'It is a long story and, alas, there is no time in which to tell it. The battle in the world beyond this place wears on and the foe is myriad. They must be taken down and such is their number that he you know as Lord Khushrenada can not succeed on his own.'

'I need to go back and help defend the castle.'

'The castle is already gone to ruin, my friend. It has served its purpose in defending the vale for four hundred generations of mankind. The rent between worlds grows larger, slowly, inexorably, but it grows. Ten thousand years ago the pride of my people birthed a tear in the fabric of reality and as punishment, rightfully, this city fell. The tear in reality grows stronger, wider and the darkness to be found on the other side leeches through into this world. It will decimate the world if it can not be stopped and only the Catalysts and the Knights that guard them can defend until the tear is sealed.'

She rose, proud and tall, turning to face him, her head back, eyes fierce and too blue.

'A thousand generations of mankind might you be required to serve as Shield. Perhaps more. Can you do this duty, Sir Maxwell? Will you serve The One and stand against the darkness? Will you bind yourself in blood to a Catalyst, living as he lives, dying as he dies. Can you stand firm to save your world?'

Yuy had told him he would know why he had been born, that he would learn who and what he was. He wanted to run in fear, to scream his terror of the duty she offered him. Two hundred and fifty years he had lived, a bare ten generations of mankind, and she offered him a thousand generations, perhaps more, before it would be done.

'Will it end? Will we win?'

'If none stand strong to defend, then no, there will be no salvation from the darkness.'

He could walk away. Suddenly he knew he could walk away and the death he had begun to look for would find him. He would finally be able to die.

'Will another come to be this Shield after me?'

Blue eyes shuttered and her head lowered as the wind began to whip the curtains wildly about the room and the darkness began to deepen. Beyond, down on the beach, the waves roared in, wind driven, crashing into the shore with a rhythmic roar. Thunder rumbled and lightning slashed across the sky.

"I will stand as Shield,… though I am not worthy. Are you sure it is me?'

"Treize thought so.'

'Treize?'

'Will you stand as Shield to the Moon, Duo Maxwell? Will you guard him at cost of your own life? Will you aid in the salvation of your race and this world? Will you accept into you the Will and the Word of The One?'

Drawing a ragged breath, dismissing the thoughts of a death he had thought he longed for, he nodded once, decisively.

"I will stand as Shield to the Moon.'

She curtsied to him, deeply and reverently and he could feel himself colour but he could not move, could not speak. Something held him in a vice while warmth enfolded him and grew to become a blazing inferno. The storm wracked room faded into brilliant light and passed to leave him standing in a cavern.

He could hear the drip of water somewhere beyond his field of sight. A soft radiance filled his vision, revealing the water at his feet and the island in the centre of the lake. The water itself seemed to radiate moonlight, and he was sure the light was that of a full moon riding high in the sky on a clear winter's night. Chill, magnificent. A light to see by, a light to remember the past; to hope for a better future.

A light by which to pray to The One for salvation.

There were standing stones on the island and each one pulsed with blue radiance. Slowly, steadily, pulsing like a heartbeat. He could feel it pulsing through his feet…

He was naked?!

Naked as the moment of his birth, standing on the shore of the lake and feeling through the soles of his feet the heartbeat of the stones. He was clean and his hair was unbound, flowing over his skin, reaching to his thighs, a chestnut cascade lit by moonlight.

'Take up your sword, Sir Maxwell.'

If she was there he could not see her.

The floor beneath him continued to pulse with the thrumming of the stones, and his feet moved without conscious direction from him. His feet knew where he was to go and he could do nothing but submit, feeling the song of the glowing stones vibrate through his blood and bones, drawing him closer.

There were six swords in the water, each resting upon a stone pedestal set in a circle. He stood within the circle, looking about him at the swords.

Six swords, but seven pedestals.

One column of stone was dark and silent; the pulse of the Standing Stones did not run through it as it did the other six. He knew the missing sword. He knew it as though he had witnessed it lying on the throbbing stone and knew it could be found bound by a silken cord and worn on the hip of another chosen to be a shield as he had been chosen.

A curved blade such as he had seen the desert folk wield, its hilt bound in silver and gold wire, a deep yellow stone set in the pommel.

A long, slender blade with a black leather grip and onyx lion's head, jaws opened in a snarl, ivory fangs bared as the pommel.

A long bladed sword, a slightly curving blade such as the golden skinned, dark haired people of the far Eastern mountains favoured; the hilt and guard fashioned to resemble a coiled dragon with fiery eyes.

A hand and a half sword, a ruby dark as any man's blood crowned the pommel of the sword and the leather grip was impressed with the design of a wolf's head. Fine chain links of gold and silver bound the cross-guard in an intricate pattern and the blade was long and straight.

A two handed sword with a massively heavy blade and flaring barbs as guard on the hilt. It was fashioned of dark metal that reflected the light, seeming to pulse with the stones song, its pommel a grinning skull with diamond eyes.

The last sword before him was a short, broad blade. Not a pretty weapon but functional and he distrusted its appearance. For all it looked shabby it was a master craftsman's work. It was plain of appearance and the squat hilt was marked by a single rune.

He was to choose a sword? His eyes ran again over the weapons and his feet moved him that little bit closer to the pedestals. One at the time he considered the swords and when he reached for the squat hilted sword his hand was rebuffed.

'Why do you choose a weapon which does not call to you?'

'I am not a Lord or a Knight to take a weapon fit for a King.'

'Humility is becoming in its place, Sir Maxwell, but in this place you must be true to your heart. The Will of the One must be obeyed. Take up your rightful weapon.'

He had to take up a sword? Not the sword he had thought might be his, which obviously was not his. The Will of the One? Well then, who was he to know the Will of the One? It would call to him would it? Then let the One choose for him.

Closing his eyes he turned himself around until he was sure he would not know which sword was where and then stilled, calming his heartbeat, listening. The sword would call to him? He would hear it…

Cool leather in his hand, a weight dragging at his shoulder muscles and he gripped the hilt more firmly with both hands, his feet automatically taking the ready stance. Hardly daring too, he never-the-less opened his eyes… The blood ruby filled his vision, the silver and gold chains in their intricate pattern… he knew, under his palm, there would be the impression of a wolf's head stamped into the leather.

This then was the sword that called to him.

'Release him.'

The seven pedestals, five now holding swords and singing, two silent and empty, vanished before him. The song of the stones picked up and his eyes were drawn to the Standing Stones.

Him?

He walked through the water which seemed more like liquid moonlight; his eyes centred on the stones, listening to their call, feeling their song pick up a beat. The heartbeat was closer to his own now, rising from a resting rhythm to something approaching his own life beat. He should he afraid, he should be excited… should be…

This close he could see between the stones into the heart of the circle and his breath caught in his throat, his heart skipped the beat of the stones and then raced madly.

In moonlight, suspended between two pillars of stone in the centre of the circle, was a magnificent creature. He was not human, he could not be, but he was magnificent to behold. His hair seemed to be moonlight strands that flowed unbound over broad shoulders and a deep chest. He was slender without being thin, muscled without being roped and corded and bulky. He was, quite simply, perfect.

And he was chained.

Naked, his arms spread wide to either side, broad cuffs of silver connected by golden chains sealed to the pillars at either side of him. His long feet were bound by silver shackles that tied his ankles together and a golden chain ran from the shackles to a stone set into the floor of the circle.

They were not the only chains binding him. Each toe was ringed in gold, a rune or a gem distinguishing the individual rings. The finest imaginable chains of gold ran from each ring, six strands of chain in a twisted plait connected each toe ring to the bands of gold that circled his ankles and then ran up those incredibly long legs to connect to the golden ring that circled the base of his sex. The chains then ran from that band up and across the flat belly, across the muscle ridged abdomen to a single, wider chain made up of a succession of plaited chains each no wider than a human hair.

From the belly chain more hair fine chains extended up, across the muscled chest to connect to the band of gold encircling the slender column of his neck. Chains ran from the neck band down across the broad shoulders and over the muscled arms to the bands of gold at his upper arms, and thence down the length of those well muscled arms to the wide bands circling his wrists. From the wristbands more multi plaited, delicate chains cascaded the length of his hands to join the ten rings marking the fingers of his hands.

He drew a shaking breath, his eyes moving over every inch of the Catalyst suspended in the magic that enslaved him. He looked up, seeking the face of him and found his vision blocked by a fall of over long bangs covering the man's face, his head lowered as though in sleep. Through the strands of moonlight that made up his hair he glimpsed the glint of metal, and he suspected the Catalyst was crowned by a golden band such as he had seen the Lord Khushrenada wear when he released his magic.

His hands went to the ringed hands, hesitated, hovering over the chains extending up to the wrist bands. Beneath the clothes he had worn had that other man too been bound in chains? Did the Lord Khushrenada's chains extend to his full body as this man's did?

'Release him.'

Release him? How?

His eyes examined the chains binding the man to the side pillars and to the ground. They exuded magic and he had always had a deep respect for magic. Indeed, after surviving a number of miscast spells he had a healthy fear of it… but this was different. This was old magic, properly cast, not some hedge wizard or mage who thought he knew great magic. This was the real magic that lived in the world, in every blade of grass, in every breath of air, in every creature… and he had no idea of how he was to deal with it.

Release him? No one had given him instructions on how to do this and it was assumed he would know?!

The vision hit with the force of a lightning bolt, the chill of it invading muscle and bone. He watched as he took up his sword and pierced the heart of the bound man, his blood flowing in a warm cascade over the sword, over him… Bathed in the blood of the man who was no man, he drank the hot blood from the stilling beating heart and felt the power fill him, feeling the life and the magic drain from the Moon and fill him with vitality.

The sword ignited into red flame, a flame so darkly red it was as if blood was wielded in his hand and he saw himself slay demons by the hundreds. They fell before him as he cut a swathe through their ranks, his name called in a chant from those who followed him, rushing into the battle to die on the claws of the demons.

'NO!'

No, no, he could not do that. He would not do that. He could not pierce that beating heart. He would not bathe in the hot blood and he would not drink it to gain that sort of power.

'I am not that MONSTER! I am supposed to be his Shield! I am supposed to keep him alive; guard him from harm. I will not shed his blood!'

'You are a soldier. You have killed countless times before.'

'I will not kill him.'

'He will be reborn again.'

'I… Will… Not… Do it!' The words tore from his throat, each word painfully distinct, backed by every ounce of the willpower he could claim.

'No? Then you condemn the world to fall to the darkness.'

"Well, it's a dark thing you ask, no darker than those beasts that tear children apart and devour them! I am no murderer. I kill in equal combat on the battle field, I do not skulk in dark corners and slip a blade between unsuspecting prey's ribs to find their heart. I do not kill from the shadows, nor do I kill for the sake of killing. I am no psychopath to glory in the blood of others. I have always tried to fight with honour and honesty, not with trickery and deceit.'

'The blade has been taken up. This is old magic, birthed in blood and fire and the Catalyst is no more than a receptacle for that magic. The sword is an extension of the magic and once drawn, it must know blood.'

'Then it will know mine and be sated!'

'Man, do you think you have the ancient magic within your weak blood and bones? Do you think your pitiful blood can fire the sword and release its powers? Do you think your polluted blood can seal its thirst? Think much of yourself you do.'

'I have no magic. I have nothing within me that will fire this blade and make it capable of killing those beasts that bring slaughter in the night. If it must have blood to be laid back down, then I will feed it mine and pray with my last breath that it goes back to where I found it.'

The throbbing of the stones filled his world, the pulse beat thrumming in time to his wildly beating heart.

'Very well. As your wish wills it, blood the sword and die. The Moon shall remain bound in chains as the world crumbles to ruin for want of able defenders.'

'Then so be it. I will not slay that which I am charged to defend.'

The light of the stones surrounded him and the song they sang was a cacophony that threatened to split his head asunder. Somehow he was suspended in the air before the blonde who had been named the Moon and the sword's tip rested against his chest; over his heart, between the strands of the chains. He could feel the sword desiring to drink, to draw blood, and he had broken the skin, a trickle of darkest crimson trailing over pale golden skin, smeared over the point of the sword.

"No! I will not!'

'It thirsts for a Catalyst's blood.'

It was hard to turn the blade aside. It fought him every inch of the way and that trickle became more than a trickle as he struggled, but he kept the blade from impaling the man. He would rule the sword, not have it rule him, and if it must have blood, if there was no way to avoid it, then it would drink his.

The pain as the blade pierced his heart was intense, enfolding him in agony…

But it would be brief.

A man could not live with a pierced heart for long, and his bones would rot away at the feet of one who did not deserve to be slain just to fire a sword's strength.

'Well done, Knight of the Shield, you who are indeed Shield of the Moon. Wake him.'

He stood within the stones, staring at the breaking chains; first at the left wrist, then the right wrist of the Moon. The shackles binding his feet were the next to fall aside and he was suspended only by magic, his arms falling gently to rest at his sides and the chains binding his body sang with awakened magic.

He was alive… somehow. Alive and his blood was on those chains, splashed over the broad chest of the Moon, mingling with the flow of blood from the wound he had given before he could turn the blade aside. When he looked his own chest was covered with blood, but there was no wound, only a scar where the sword had pierced his flesh. It was well healed and there was no pain.

He had pierced his own heart.

He raised stunned eyes to the Moon and reached out a trembling hand. That flesh was warm, alive, coursing with the heat and beat of magic. The blood, not his own where his hand touched, was hot with life and he ran his fingers over the wound, wishing with all of his soul that he had not been so weak and marked that pale golden flesh.

Weeping because he had been weak, aching because he had drawn blood and, whilst he had stabbed himself, he was now healed, but this man who had never done him wrong bled because of him…

He touched his lips to the open wound, his tears mingling with the blood, a hand pressed to warm flesh, his forehead to the broad chest.

"I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry.'

A deeper breath he felt through his palm resting over a dark nipple lifted the deep chest. The chains were alive with magic, singing, and he wondered that he was not burned to a crisp so hot was it this close to that ancient power.

He watched with widening eyes as the blood crawled and shaped into runes, running over the naked body so close to his. The wound closed, healing to a faint scar before his astonished gaze, and the growing intensity of the magic burned the blood from them both, bathing them clean in its light.

Their hair mingled, blown crazily by the currants of magic, knotting together, blowing free… chestnut and spun moonlight entwining.

He was surprised to realise the sword rested between their bodies, naked flesh pressed to naked flesh and he could feel the hot metal of the sword, the scalding enchantment of the chains. Blue flame blazed between them, pure and intense; alive.

Gasping with the wonder of it all he looked up…

Into crystal blue eyes.

———————

Dawn lay on the horizon, the first, faint lightening of the day beginning to banish the horrors of the night. The castle still burned on the far side of the valley and he wondered if anyone had survived to see the dawn. Perhaps someone had survived to escape the inferno that had split the mighty walls and would run to another settlement, perhaps to a farmers hovel… somewhere where man still lived.

Run and warn of the horror, of the demons that had taken down the castle, butchered the people and decimated the lands about it.

It had not been like that other castle, the walls of which had been strengthened by enchantments cast by a Catalyst. Even so, Castle Khushrenada had cracked like an egg shell long ago and now, if anything remained, it would be a few bits of overgrown rubble. Twenty five years he had spent there, learning from Yuy and failing to understand just what a precious gift to the world a Catalyst was.

His eyes drifted, as they always did, to the man sleeping, tucked up between the guttering fire and the protection of the solid rock. With the sunrise they would move on, but they had a little time yet. He had a little time to marvel at the wonders he had witnessed in his long life, and at the treasures that had been gifted to an unknowing world.

"Is it dawn?"

He loved to hear that warm husky voice. Roughened velvet, smooth and deep. Rich with an accent that even after a thousand years had not changed. There were only a few alive in this day and age who would recognise that accent for what it was.

"No, Milliardo, not yet. We have time. I'll stoke the fire and cook us some breakfast.'

End

Karina Robertson 2010


	3. Chapter 3

Hey there

I know, it's been two years since I wrote the last Travellers fic! I had hoped to get to another chapter before this, but real life is not to be denied and I'm writing other long term fics and there just never seems to be enough time to go around. But I put the long term fics on hold to work on this one as a Christmas / New Year treat [which I hope you will consider it as].

Hope you enjoy.

Merry Christmas and thank you for reading through the year.

Karina

000ooo000

Title: Travellers

Author: Karina

Pairings: Zechs + Duo

Ratings: M 15+ [In Australia] Rated for a bit of violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing or the characters.

Warnings: Extremely AU. Use of magic and a bit of violence. Basically, Swords and Sorcery.

Many thanks to ShenLong Deb for her work betaing this fic.

Originally written as a birthday present for Dark Song, Travellers will continue with occasional updates as a succession of complete one off style fics. Not sure how many of these there will be, but while the muse wills it, there will be the occasional Travellers update which, I hope, those of you who asked for more will enjoy.

Title: Travellers:

It was a cesspit of humanity. Disgusting.

Reeking with the sour stench of unwashed humanity. Open sewers lined the streets, human waste mixed with copious quantities of animal urine, manure, offal from the butchery stall, the wretched waste from the tanner, overripe, rotting fruit and vegetables that passed for prime merchandise in this district. In this quarter generally everything foul that could be found in a city overfull of humankind lent itself to the reeking atmosphere.

It might have been any city on the continent. Sometimes he found it hard to tell where he was, one stinking cesspit so closely resembled another, and he had seen entirely too many of them.

He skirted the baker, eyeing the still steaming flat loaves and considered the filth surrounding him before he decided that, no, he really did not want to chance it. They were staying at a ramshackle Inn on the edge of the poor quarter where it was, thankfully, at least possible to guarantee the food to be a bit more wholesome than in this slum. Hungry he might be but he could wait a time, until he completed his errand, before he sated that hunger.

They had come to, hopefully, clean out a den of daemons, amongst other things, not contract a dose of fire belly. The One might have given him a body that defied age, but one could still contract bodily ailments that left one feeling like a wrung out rag. Purging his body from either end was not something he desired to experience in a hurry.

The crush surrounding him was unbearable in the market square and he kept his hands close to his purse and the hilt of the sword securely bound by the intricate knot. He had other weapons with which to defend himself, but he was not of a mind to have another's inquisitive fingers investigate his pockets and possessions. Coin was hard to come by at present and they needed every coin they had to make their way through this country.

Someday, if he was lucky, they might get to wander pristine, courtly halls and sweet smelling streets instead of the ramshackle, stinking hodgepodge that made up the slums. Every city had them though not generally as bad as this example.

He was uneasy about leaving his companion at this time, but he had little choice. It was simply impossible for Him to slip unnoticed through these crowded narrow ways. This part of their duty he alone must attend whilst his partner hid himself away, binding himself with protections that would deceive their quarry, and those who might be curious at the use of magic. If Milliardo could remain undetected by their prey, then their task would be that much easier.

It was a rare time. The rarest. A rare month, a rare year. A rare millennium! Only twice before that he knew of had this event occurred. He and his companion had been closer to the focus of the event than their counterparts, thus it was their responsibility to oversee the affair.

It was unfortunate that a den of the daemons was within the same city walls, complicating matters.

From beneath the shadow of the cowl he watched with a calculating gaze as the beggars, and those who classed themselves a step or two above beggars, threaded their way through the narrow streets, brushing against each other, rarely talking, always wary. Here life was cheap. Everyone knew it. Everyone awoke each day wondering if it would be their last, if death would release them from the hopelessness of their existence and perhaps surprised, perhaps disappointed, that they had awoken to see yet another day.

He had walked through many cities whose streets were filled with the hopeless. They were the maimed, the poorest of the poor. In this city many were country folk, refugees displaced by war, who had sought out the city in hopes of a better life, only to find their hopes crushed, trampled on, and discovered themselves to be trapped. They were the petty criminals who preyed on others, some knowing no better, others hoping to fight clear of the underworld even as they knew it was hopeless. The most pitiful of all had to be the second generation refugees who knew nothing of life in the country their parents had left behind which, in his opinion, was far better than this city swill they all waded through. They knew no better life and meekly accepted it as being the will of The One.

The One never intended for anyone to live worse than cattle bound for the slaughter yard. Cattle were at least tended, fed and protected from the dangers to be found in the world, until they were brought to their final day to feed humanity.

Well, the wealthier of humanity, that was. None of these poor sods would know the rich flavour of prime cuts of beef, hog and venison, or the richer flavoured juices of perfectly seasoned and cooked roasts oozing with gravy... Enough of that, he was hungry without making matters worse. Even the stench was not enough to put off his growing appetite.

He watched with more than a little despair the children, some barely able to walk, playing in the mud and filth of the open sewer, marvelling briefly that even in this stinking cesspit a child could find something to laugh about. Here, tragically, innocence did not last long. He stepped over a body stretched out, stiff, decomposing, gradually being swallowed by the mud and refuse those same children played in.

It was not a welcoming place and he was glad that his companion need not see it. As it was the reek of the place was distressing the man whose senses were a great deal more developed than his own. The sooner they were done here the sooner he could get the man out of the overcrowded city where the sheer weight of human numbers were pressing on his senses, distressing him, stirring the ancient magic sourced within him.

He had no idea how his partner wielded the magic he did, but he was well aware that it most often was not a comfortable thing to carry, let alone work. Somehow the man was tied to the magic of the world itself, mystic bonds bound him to the soil, the wind, the water. He could feel it all, live it, experience it. He was no human, having lived long in the past, and was one of only two survivors of that mythic race that Duo knew of; though to be honest he was not quite certain that The Khushrenada was of the same race as his Milliardo.

But if he was not, then... But no, he was thinking too much, and that was not what he was meant to do. He was the Shield, guard stone to the Catalyst. He needed to be quick to complete his errand and return to his charge.

It would not do for anyone to realise how different that particular traveller was from the dozens of others walking the streets.

His lower lip curled at the acrid stench of magic wafting amidst the stink. Magic had a peculiar smell, one he had learned to identify long in the past. This was it then, his destination. Magic should not stink like this, putrid, somehow deformed, unwholesome. He knew what real magic should smell like and because of that he dared not permit Milliardo to be anywhere near the wielder of this malformed magic.

Humanity claimed to have mastered the Art, that legendary element the ancients had wielded to great effect. From the meanest hedge wizard to the exulted Court Magus standing behind the King's throne, they claimed mastery over the most dangerous element of the planet... and he knew they collectively knew nothing.

They were a danger to themselves and to the people they professed to 'help'. Magic was a drawcard for the daemons; they were drawn to it like leeches to blood, and with much the same result. A daemon who sucked a Magus dry was a powerful, frightening thing, and it was all too easy for them to take out a magic wielder overconfident in his skills. And what mage, of either the highest or lowest standing, was not confident in his skills?

Mages could be useful, he would admit that, they certainly had their uses, but they were insatiably curious. They could not leave well enough alone and they actively sought out power. The softest, shortest whisper of ancient power and they gathered like crows to a carcass, slavering at the jaws like hunting wolves, eager for the feast. He had not known many who wielded magic whom he could say he held any respect for until he had met The Khushrenada, then his Milliardo.

He had heard a whisper the night before that worried him. The Moon, he had heard, might be found in a nearby ruin. The Moon was his Milliardo and that name had long appeared in the texts of human magic as an ancient artefact of great power, long lost. Not the man himself, but whispers, rumours of the power this 'artefact' contained, could be found on the tongues of the learned throughout the world. Careless whispers gave rise to rumour and the Magus came hunting, seeking for the artefact to own, examine and use.

None of them suspected this priceless artefact of pure magic was a living, breathing soul. It was best it remain that way.

There was word on the street already that three magic users had entered the city in the last two days, by his count that would make at least fifteen, perhaps more, now resident within the city walls. More would gather to investigate the rumour, giving birth to more rumours that would spread, bringing in more magic users.

A dangerous cycle, made more so given their business within the city.

They needed to keep this event low key. There was no way the Catalyst could be passed off as a hedge mage should someone sense the quality of the presence of the magic he wielded. Remaining at the inn, binding himself in protections, was the best they could do. If matters did not go well, then he would have to get Milliardo out of the city as quickly as possible, as soon as possible, even if it meant they did not deal with the daemons they knew nested somewhere here.

And that was another danger. The more magic users that entered the city, the more the daemons would feast. The ether that carried the magical currents stirred and strengthened with each additional magus, presenting the daemons with the perfect feasting ground. It was like hanging out a sign the size of the city's main gates saying 'free meal, come and get it'. A few daemons would die in the frenzy, yes, no doubt of that. The human mages could defend themselves after all, but against these creatures of darkness... So alien to their world. Defending against them was no easy thing and, should they come in force, as they usually did and most certainly would here, then a great many of the common citizens of the city might become collateral damage.

He paused, looking around him, smelling the ozone that overpowered even the stench of the sewers. It was a ramshackle dwelling, just like the others that surrounded it. The homes here were more a collection of lean-to's and sheds constructed of whatever the builder could get his hands on. This one was a little sturdier than most, strengthened by magic to keep out the unwanted, be that weather, vermin or thieves. A hedge mage, or at one time a hedge mage, one who had seen fit for some reason to set up an apothecary in the district. A few did, in various cities and towns across the country, usually those too old or infirm due to some injury, to travel and seek knowledge any longer.

The reek of the protections overpowered the stench of the streets, though he supposed few, if any, of the locals could tell the difference. He was more sensitive to the use of magic than most, after all. For a moment his fingers tightened around the small money pouch he carried at his chest, ensuring that the contents were still there. He almost felt like a child entrusted with an errand, the success or failure of which determined his standing as child or adult. It had been a long time since he had felt that inadequacy, but in this environment, one could never be too careful.

There was no bell to announce his presence, and he supposed it could be the rise of the streets stench that marked his entrance into the hovel, whatever the cause before the door had even closed the hedge mage was there. Robed in rags stained with unthinkable things, possibly the last years worth of meal droppings and whatever concoctions the hedge mage sold to the poor as medicine. Standing framed in the far doorway, cowled, stinking and wretched... and trying his damnedest to look mysterious for the gullible local who was desperate enough to seek him out.

Him? Well possibly, the gender was a little ambiguous beneath all that shabby, stained material. Often it was hard to tell until someone opened their mouths if they were a him, her or it, he mused with sarcastic humour. It was much the same with he and Milliardo. They shrouded themselves not against the weather, but against being identified. Anonymity was a much valued commodity.

Silently he moved from the door, across the small space to the rude counter, placing the pouch there and waited. After a moment the hedge mage moved, almost gliding to the counter to take up the pouch. The long robe fell over the hand that reached for it, shielding it from view, no help there for identifying age or gender, and the individual half turned, not quite putting their back to him, but shielding the pouch from view as it was examined. After a moment the figure retreated into the inner room, returning a few minutes later and laying the same pouch on the table before stepping back.

That was what Milliardo had told him to expect. Satisfied he swept the pouch up, sliding it into the secret pocket over his heart and, without acknowledging the other, he swept out of the hovel and back into the ever moving sea of humanity.

He cast a glance up at the sky, noting the position of the sun and the advance of the dark clouds that suggested they would not have the comfort of a moon for this night's work. He could feel the weather front closing in, long experience warning him only the desperate, and those determined to work nefarious deeds, would be without shelter this night. Pity that, with the fall of night, he would need to class himself amongst those numbers, though neither desperate nor intent on thievery or murder.

The darker the night the more ease the daemons had moving around. The rift in time and space that gave them access to this world continued to widen, minutely, admittedly, but widen it did. It was taking millennia, but the darkness was steadily growing and the creatures that came through it were more varied. For more than a thousand years he had been the Shield to The Moon, fighting these horrors that at first devoured only blood and bone, leaving little in their wake. In the last century or three, the pattern had changed, now there were those daemons who feasted and grew stronger on the worlds magic, establishing themselves in the vicinity of magical centres.

There was, to his discomfort and Milliardo's horror, some evidence to suggest the daemons were breeding.

If they found actual evidence of the horrors breeding then the hope of the world would be diminished. The rift in the fabric of time and space was there, undeniably, but it was small. There was still a barrier between worlds that worked to slow them down, largely keeping them at bay. But if those creatures that made it through the void and managed to survive and escape the few people who hunted them...

If they established a foothold, a fortified bridgehead or a breeding colony, then it was a new game they faced. Only a certain number of the beasts could squeeze through the rift, but if these things bred at even half the rate of humanity, then humankind on this world was in trouble.

There were only two Catalysts abroad in the world who were capable of destroying the stronger of the daemons. Two Catalysts and the two Shields who defended them.

It would not be enough. If the creatures of darkness began to breed, then a hundred such as Milliardo and The Khushrenada would not be enough to contain them.

These were dark days.

He was being watched, but that was no surprise. The only question was who was doing the watching, and for what purpose. There would be the sneak thieves, hoping to identify him as an easy mark, beggars hoping to score some small coin from his purse, if he proved to be the charitable sort. More worrisome was the odd city guard strolling through the squalid streets, and the shadow that flitted every now and then just at the corner of his eye.

As he made his way through the crush he occasionally detected a stronger odour of magic than the general background stench wafting from the more influential and richer districts of the city. He suspected that stink came from the one who shadowed him, a hedge mage, perhaps, or the lackey of a stronger, more influential magus who could afford to place some sort of protection on a servant or even an apprentice.

Or one of the lesser daemons who could move about during the daylight hours, if heavily clothed from the sun.

The interest in him was worrying, given they had only been resident in the city for little more than a full day.

A magus might detect the quiver in the magical ether that not even the strongest of protections could totally disguise; a ripple that was the response of the magical ether itself to the presence of a Catalyst. Magus were curious creatures, and once an oddity was detected there was no doubt they would investigate. If the magus was in a high enough standing with the nobility he might well gain information on everyone who passed through the city gates at a given time, on a given day.

They could not know what it was that caused the disturbance, but they would be keen to find out. Human magus were always on the lookout for others who were capable of wielding the magic of the world.

Marking the presence of the shadow he continued on his way. They had limited time. He could not afford to delay, given the time scale Milliardo had mentioned. The clock, literally, was ticking and they needed to be in place before this drama began.

He had been given items of protection, one of which would buy them some time should The One smile upon him favourably. He cut down a side alley, delaying just long enough to be sure his shadow was out of sight before he activated it, caressing a finger delicately over the rune sewn into his shielding robes. The rough grey homespun, much patched and filthy, flickered and became brown, tattered and torn, mud covered. A simple disguise, but hopefully enough to gain him a few minutes.

He took another turn, cutting back toward the main thoroughfare, weaving slowly through the crowd, hunched a little further to disguise his height, adding a slight limp. Nothing more. To be too different from those who surrounded him would be to attract attention, and that was exactly what he was trying to avoid. He diverted his course enough to head away from the inn where his partner waited without putting half the city between them, then once again passed into deeper shadow. It was not hard to find dark alleys, especially now that the sun was being devoured by the clouds, and the brown robes shifted to a mismatch of patched together filthy fabric, his gate smoothed out but his stride shortened and he straightened his spine, slipping through a side street and working his way back toward the inn.

He paused outside the building, making a show of trying to count the contents of a patched and obviously light weight purse without anyone realising what he was about, it was how one tried to avoid cut-purses. He hesitated just long enough for the first drops of rain to help make up a traveller's mind about where he might spend the night, hunched in some refuse strewn street or the relative warmth and comfort of a rude inn. Stuffing the purse back into his robes he extended his hand to the door and jumped back, stumbling, as the door was thrust open and a fight erupted out into the street.

Perfect. He could not have asked for a better distraction.

As the patrons crowded out of the common room he wormed his way through the crowd of bellowing men and screeching barmaids. He took the opportunity, watched only by the half drunk barkeep, to work his way up the rough hewn ladder that served as stairs to the upper level, keeping to the wall where the shadows were thickest. Gathering his robe close about him he slipped down the hall to the third room, the furthest from the stairs, the only one that claimed a window overlooking a scrawny but sturdy tree backed by the city wall. One always had to have an emergency exit when one desired to escape notice.

He felt the flow of magic as his fingers touched the door. Felt the recognition to his touch and the door opened to his will. Anyone else who tried to open the door would be rejected and an alarm would alert the room's inhabitants. Runes placed during his absence would defend against forced intrusion, and he was relieved to see the figure sitting by the fire, shrouded in plain if well worn robes, slender hands placed neatly on his knees.

He ran a quick eye over the runes painted on the floor, weaving his way through them carefully, mindful not to permit his clothing to disturb them. He dropped the locking bar across the door, securing it, feeling a rune lock into place, strengthening the wood against forced intrusion. Milliardo had added a considerable number of varied protections to the room in his absence, from the energy he sensed and the sweetness of the smell that was the Catalyst's magic, they were powerful protections. He wondered why his charge had chosen to weaken himself by placing those runes when he was supposed to be resting in preparation for the night.

They had intended to remain in the city no longer than four or five days.

"Something is wrong?"

"They are aware."

The voice was like crushed velvet, warm with a rasp. Low, barely above a whisper, and the cowled head remained bent. After a moment the slender hands cupped, fingers spreading a little, as though to accommodate a small ball. A brief haziness centred in those hands and then a dark green glow manifested itself. For a long moment the Catalyst's fingers were seen to be ringed with precious metals and gemstones, finely crafted plaited chains leading from the rings up into the mass of fabric clothing his arms. After a moment the magic quieted, the rings and chains vanished from sight, and the Catalyst stirred.

"Time is running out."

"Do they know who we are, or only that there is a powerful magus in the city?"

"The Magus sense another with the Art. The daemon's know better and prepare."

That was not what they wanted, for either magus or daemon to hunt them so quickly. "Will they run?"

"Some might. I have sensed some thirty magus within the confines of the city walls. It is too big a feast for the Dark One's to give up entirely. And then there is the other matter to be considered. When they sense it they would sacrifice many to kill that one ray of hope."

Duo sighed softly, crossing the floor to hand the seated man the small pouch he had kept close to his heart. "Then it will be tonight?"

"It must be this night. It will be."

"Damn. You know these things don't always go according to the way you want it to happen... At least, not with humans. I don't know about your race, but early or late is the general rule, and never at a convenient time for the onlooker."

The heavy cowl was cast back and he found himself looking into sparking ice blue eyes. Crystal blue, clear, all too intelligent and filled with magic and mystery and, at the moment, no small amusement. A shimmering waterfall of moonlight, palest silver touched with gold cascaded, softening the proud beauty of a race that had died out thousands of years ago. He was ancient by human terms, for all that he looked to be less than a score and five by human standards. Young, vibrantly alive, filled with magic and mystery.

This was The Moon.

"I am reliably informed that I came not early to this world, Duo. I clung to the security of my mother's womb rather more than most, and was told some years later that I was a terrible child. Stubborn, strong willed and rebellious, and had been so from the moment of my birth. In contrast, my sister came early to the world, full of smiles and sunshine and considerably lightened the grief I caused everyone by my wilful ways."

"I was probably born in a gutter somewhere and handed to the orphanage by some passer-by. Don't know, don't particularly care either. It was a long time ago and I was probably just as horrible a brat as you."

The sigh was deep and marked a depth of exhaustion few would know. "Yes, a long time ago. Lives come into the world and leave it every day. Some are born into poverty, some into palaces. It is not one's birth that makes the man, but what one does with one's life that is accounted by others. I fear a great many will die this night, without the opportunity to fulfil the prospects of their lifetimes. All too often these days death comes early."

"We are not an army. We can only do the best we can."

He inclined his head slightly. "Yes. That is all we can do, but we are an army. An army of two, Duo, and it is time that we moved. The storm will lend us cover and I feel the proximity to Event. I would avoid the Magus if at all possible and go straight for the daemons. They will have stalked these streets and know it well, and they will feel the proximity to Event."

Duo nodded, checking the knot on the sword bound at his side. A simple pull was all it would take to free the weapon, and given where they were bound and what they were likely to face on the way, he was determined to have no impediment to his defence. They needed to be careful, for the moment they released magic they would be a beacon to every wielder in the city and its surrounds.

The Catalyst was taller than his Shield, more slender, though the robes both wore disguised their physique. Drawing the cowl up over his head he moved to the window, opening the shutter just enough to peer out into the area below. The rain was growing heavier and distantly there was the sound of thunder. Duo moved up beside him, waiting.

"There is no more time. They come with the rain, and they intend to beat us to the hut."

"What about...?" Duo waved a hand at the rune warded room, concerned about the magic laid in defence.

Normally before they moved on they would delay to remove the wards that no innocent bystander be caught in their coils, but Milliardo shook his head slightly.

"There is no time for that. The Magus will be attracted to the magic here once I drop the shield. With luck it will keep them occupied while we hunt. It may afford them some protection from the daemons out to feast on them; and they will come to feast."

With a low grunt Duo fetched their packs, knowing Milliardo would have restocked their supplies in his absence. They would not be returning to the Inn, but make a hasty, and hopefully unseen, departure from the city before the dawn lighted the heavens. By the time he returned to the window Milliardo was already on the ground, blending with the deep shadows closest to the city wall.

Wasting no time he swung over the window sill, closing the shutter behind him, feeling the magic spring to life in the rune placed there. He would have liked to see the look on a Magus' face when they tried to deactivate those runes, but such was not to be. There were more serious matters to be attended to. He dropped to the branch beneath the window and a quick shinny and then drop had him on the ground, ghosting silently in the mud and rain to join his companion.

He felt the protective ward that had shielded the magic use that had taken place in the inn drop; felt the flare of power that resulted, then he was running with his companion at his back, leading the way through the streets towards the poorest quarter. When they neared their objective Milliardo's seeking spell would guide them to the door they sought, but for now it was enough to make their way into the slums with him in the lead as guide.

A hiss from his companion brought him to a halt and he felt the folds of the Catalyst's cloak enclose him, and the press of a wall as they blended with the deep shadow. The tingle of an activated rune sewn into the fabric informed him Milliardo had activated a shielding rune, virtually making them invisible so long as they remained still.

He felt it then, the chill that had nothing to do with the bitterly cold night, or the rain that was mercilessly beating down on them. A flash of lightning in the distance provided just enough light to see the moving shadows gliding through the night. Shadows that were too tall, too slender, to be human. He held his breath, waiting to see if they detected the magic, but they moved on past, unknowing of the Catalyst and Shield only an arm's reach from them.

"I've not see that kind before," he dared to whisper.

"Higher level, I think, more advanced than what we are accustomed to dealing with. Certainly they are more humanoid than most. This is worrying."

The horrors they had fought could barely be described as humanoid, being more bestial; larger, bulkier. Horned, fanged and clawed. But these, these tall, slender things were something new. Something closer to the human form, something that would find it easier to hide out in a human city. It begged the question of just how many species of these creatures were making their way through the rift?

"Go."

He slipped into the night, sliding out from the protection of the cloak, mindful of any other daemons who might be stalking in their vicinity. He could not hope to contend with his companion's sensitivity to the daemons, but he was never more than a step in front of the Catalyst and he was only too aware of every sound in the rain soaked night.

Fortune at least smiled upon them, keeping them unseen by the beasts roaming the sodden streets. Not once had they seen the fanged, horned and clawed beasts they had fought in the countryside so often, but the slender humanoids seemed to be in reasonable numbers. Either they were frighteningly fast and moving about the streets randomly, or they were encountering multiple groups, and that had him worried as to how many had made their nest in the city.

They did not wish to wave a sign identifying them to one and all by the use of magic. Sewn runes within their clothing saw them safely to the point where they had no option but to use greater magic to seek out the one house they sought in this rabbit warren of humanity.

"Ready?"

He nodded, taking a long step back to stand beside the Catalyst, at the same time pulling on the cord to release the crimson tie. He drew the weapon, eyes scanning the dark streets for hints of movement. The citizens had long withdrawn to the questionable shelter of their homes. Soon they would crawl beneath their blankets and furs, huddling, terrified, trying to shut out the sounds of magic and daemons, praying to The One that they would survive the night... Or for The One to receive their souls into paradise.

A softly uttered word and a green glow grew from the centre of the palm extended out into the rain. It grew stronger, affording them some small illumination, and then it flared, briefly, brilliantly, and Milliardo was running, Duo at his side, following the magic to their goal.

"Light me up!"

The Catalyst's free hand flashed out, long fingers ringed in gold and jewels fluttering over the swords hilt, and light flared from the blade, shedding light to reveal the moving shadows in all their daemonic glory. The hand that had ignited the magic of the sword swept before them, rings flashing as magic blasted two of the creatures aside, and Duo spun around his companion, dancing, sword weaving through claws, ducking and leaping as he protected the Catalyst.

They ran the gauntlet of the beasts, flying feet carrying them through the gathering monsters, sword and magic cutting a swathe of destruction. Rings and chains bound the Catalyst's fingers and flared with power at every spell he cast. A sword fashioned purely of the magical weave that flowed so strongly through his blood and bones, a weapon capable of cleaving flesh and bone as easily as a hot knife cut through fat, carved its way through black flesh and stinking gore erupted in its wake. The stench of the slums grew profound, infused with the otherworldly stink of the beasts.

Distantly Duo heard shouts and there was an explosion of magic, ragged, infused with too much of the power a magus could draw on, and he knew the slums would ignite, burning through the night. A great many people would die, but there was nothing he could do about it except look to the future and trust they could improve the world.

He leapt past Milliardo, swinging the sword in a two handed grip, teeth clenched, feeling the magic flare and the impact as it hit his target. It took an awful amount of strength to cleave flesh and bone from shoulder to groin, and these horrors were more resilient than humans, but he felt the blade move, passing through the beast, throwing another aside though not damaging it much with the same swing. He gathered himself, leaping back to avoid the slashing claw, thrusting himself forward immediately to get under that swing and spear the beast through the heart.

Over the roaring of the beasts and the pounding of the rain, the howling of the rising wind and the distant sound of flames, he could hear screaming and cursed profusely as Milliardo plunged into the fray, glowing with the power he was releasing. By that alone he knew they were too late, that the beasts had found their target and all he could do was pray to The One that they could save the precious life they had come here for.

The Catalyst cast aside the seeking spell, extending his hands before him and his fingers flew through the air, tracing complex runes of power with inhuman speed. A flick of the fingers and the runes vanished in the night, seemingly without effect, but another rune followed and another after that. Then they were standing outside of a partially collapsed hovel, hearing screams from within, and with a wave of one hand the debris flew aside, blasted away by magic and an impatient Catalyst.

Duo growled deep in his throat, leaping forward, his sword flaring with his determination as he leapt between a screaming child and the horror rending a thin man in two. There was no fancy sword work, of which he was most capable of performing, but simple hack, slash and brute strength. There was not room for finesse, just butchery, trusting his partner to get the job done as he defended them. Time was running out, the daemons had had time to infest the city and they had no real idea of how many of them there might be.

The child, a girl dressed in rags, matted hair falling about her face, was slashed nearly in two by one of the slender, humanoid creatures, its hands elongating to emulate a sword that was, tragically, as sharp as his magic infused blade. There was only one living person in the hovel now, a woman, young, too thin, foreign features covered in blood, her body enlarged with the child she carried... bleeding out slowly on the dirt floor.

The ethereal sword crafted purely of magic slashed the daemon into two with such force that the beast was knocked through the rear wall, threatening to collapse the already weakened structure. Duo spun, leaping back to avoid grasping claws, lunging to one side then the other, seeking to ensure there was no opening for them to breach his defence. Stumbling over a corpse, feeling the beast move thinking it had won, twisting until he felt that his spine must break and then lunging, avoiding the killing blow and delivering one of his own.

Suddenly the night was too quiet. Lightning revealed the scene of carnage. A moment only, then a roar of thunder and flash of lightning that was not lightning split the night.

"What the hell was that?!" he bellowed above the noise, moving to cover the Catalyst's back as he bent over the pregnant woman.

"Some fool of a Magus getting desperate defending against these things, I would say."

"Is she alright?" Duo glanced over his shoulder, trying to see past the Catalyst and giving up, turning his attention back to the night beyond the hovel.

"She is with The One."

Duo bit his lip, cursing silently, shaking his head. For nothing. All of their care, all of the effort for the last few months pursuing the woman. All of it, gone. They had arrived too late.

"But we are not too late for this one."

The whisper drew him as the Catalyst turned, cradling something that weakly moved in his arms. Another lightning strike, another glimpse of destruction and death, but with it the glimpse, brief, of a bloodied newborn.

"Oh, by The One! He's... alive?" he could not breathe for the hope causing his heart to pound so hard it threatened to break his ribs.

The infant was wrapped securely and drawn into the voluminous robes of the Catalyst who stared out into the night with narrowed eyes.

"He is very much alive, my friend. We need to go. More are coming and with the child I can no longer fight."

"The city wall is that way I believe."

He led the way, only too conscious of the precious lives in his care. The Catalyst he was pledged to shield, with whom he had walked for more than a thousand years, and the new born. The very first human born with the ability to become a Catalyst.

The human race, in time, would have a third unsung saviour.

End

Karina Robertson 2012


End file.
